


A friendly hand

by MariaLujan



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Gen, friends - Freeform, shimothy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaLujan/pseuds/MariaLujan
Summary: An afternoon with Tim.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner & Timothy Turner
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	A friendly hand

“Sorry sister, I'll be late, can you take care of him? Bye!"

The doctor pushed the boy into her arms and ran down the steps straight to his car.

It was raining, or rather it was pouring rain and Sister Bernadette blinked, trying to understand what had just happened between the knocks she heard at the door and this moment, in which in front of her was a lanky, wet child, shivering with cold.

“I'm sorry, Sister Bernadette,” the boy whispered, taking her out of her trance.

She gave him a quick glance, before turning her eyes to the father who was already speeding away.

“Oh Tim, come in.”

Threading an arm around his slim shoulders, she entered him into the convent and closed the door behind them.

“Dad had to go to...I don't know.”

“Yes, it's a complicated call, I figured it out. They are Mrs Devin's twins, Nurse Miller is there but we all knew she was probably in need of help so… “Bernadette stopped, seeing that none of her medical talk would interest to a child.

Squeezing his shoulders slightly, she led him inside.

“Are you cold?” she asked. It was summer, but Tim's legs were wet.

“A bit.”

“Let's go to the kitchen, surely there is cake and Sister Monica Joan will be there to tell you her stories with...” she stopped. She had to work, but she did not want to abandon the boy either. He had already been left unexpectedly by his father.

She saw him lift his eyes to her, waiting for her to finish the suggestion.

“Do you want to play something?” she asked him. Timothy shrugged. He did not seem interested in anything.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if Sister Monica Joan is...”

“Sister Monica Joan never adheres to the rules of games and thus there is no point in playing something. Oops, sorry, I think I shouldn't have said that.”

She laughed a little, seeing him blush. At least he seemed to have life in his sad little face.

“I understand you perfectly, but you don't have to play with her, you can play with me.”

Timothy shrugged again and she was disappointed. Perhaps he simply wanted to be alone, or was not interested in her company. Either one hurt her soul.

“You must work,” he said, kicking something imaginary on the ground, “Everyone always works.”

The tone of voice did not escape her in his last sentence. He was clearly angry, not just at his father but at all adults. Bernadette sighed, the boy was right.

“Yes, but I can finish quickly, while you have something hot and eat cake. And then we can do something. It occurs to me...Have you ever drawn using things like sugar, biscuits, cocoa?”

The boy frowned, looking at her like she was crazy.

“What?”

“Mmm… you'll see,” she replied, wanting to sound mysterious. It worked, because Tim smiled interested.

She left him in the kitchen, in the company of Sister Monica Joan and Mrs B., while she finished sterilizing her instruments.

She sighed, she felt too identified with the boy, and that was a little wrong. She told herself it was pure Christian charity, God could not blame her for being nice to a lonely child, but she was lying. She felt a bond that was too close with him, that she did not share with so many other Poplar children in similar situations. She loved Timothy very much, in the same way that she loved his father, and that, that was totally wrong.

She bit her lower lip, trying to calm the pounding of her heart at the slightest thought of the doctor. She grunted as steam from the autoclave fogged up her glasses.

“I finished!” she heard behind her, now Tim's voice sounded more cheerful, ”What are you doing? Oh, you sterilize.”

“That's right,” she replied without looking at him, taking the objects out of the autoclave one by one. Timothy stood next to her, leaning his arms crossed on the counter. His concentrated face was identical to his father's, and she swallowed, “Tim, can you get me that cloth from there?”

Tim obediently brought her a cloth that she needed just to distract herself from her thoughts. He placed it next to her, and without being asked, he handed her her bag to store the instruments there.

“Thank you sweetie,” she smiled at him, then bit her tongue.

Tim seemed to get even more cheerful.

“Are we going to do what you told me?”

“Oh yes, look for paper, pencils, and there are colored yarns in that closet in the hallway,” she pointed out and he ran.

He immediately returned with everything requested.

“Let's go to the living room, we'll sit there.”

Timothy ran swiftly (she heard his father scold him several times for it but apparently Tim was unwilling to listen to him) and sat on the living room carpet.

She went there, passing through the kitchen, where there was no one. There she gathered the things they needed: jars of sugar, flour, tea, cookies, jams.

It was a terrible waste, and she could already hear Sister Evangelina giving her the sermon of her life if she ever discovered them. Bernadette decided that entertaining Timothy was worth enduring the speech of an angry nun.

When she walked into the living room, Tim was looking out the window, watching the rain. She heard him sigh angrily.

“Oh, it seems like it won't stop raining,” she commented casually, trying to get the boy to start talking to her about what was bothering him. It worked, because Timothy let out a dramatic sigh, turning to her.

“Today we would go with Dad to see a football match, but with all this rain it was suspended. And we would play something at home and watch my favorite show, but as always, he had to go.”

He flopped down on the carpet again, helping spread the items they would use.

“Surely when the weather is better you will go to see that match” she smiled at the boy.

“Yes, surely,” he repeated reluctantly.

Her heart sank, Tim knew that moment would never come. Bernadette felt sorry, and also angry towards Dr Turner. He was such a dedicated man to his work and she loved him, she really loved him for that and for many other things, but she could not bear to see what he was doing with his son. Timothy would grow up and forget many things, but not this. She knew it firsthand; there were things that were forever etched in the mind.

“Okay, let's draw,” she smiled at him, taking a sheet of paper.

“Can I draw anything? An airplane? Or a truck?”

“Anything, of course.”

“I'll draw an airplane. Do you know that Spitfires are the best warplanes?”

“No, I did not know,” she tried to look interested, but Tim did not seem to want to talk and he began to draw without looking at her.

Bernadette started drawing a dog, she always took pride in drawing cute animals. She looked up, he was furiously erasing until he got tired and made a bun with his sheet of paper.

“Didn't it go the way you wanted?”

“No, I'll do something else.”

She watched him quickly make a truck, and she stopped looking at him so as not to disturb him.

When Tim finished, they began to decorate. She used cocoa to decorate her brown dog and made white spots with sugar. Tim seemed more animated, and immediately had cookies to make the wheels of his truck, and wool to make the windows and doors.

“This is crazy,” she heard him say, laughing, “Dad says I shouldn't waste food.”

“Mmm, your father is boring like Sister Evangelina.”

Timothy put his hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“Sister!” he said almost shocked.

“Shh, you don't say anything. Also we are not wasting, we are making art.”

“It's true,” replied the boy. He no longer looked angry, and was putting the finishing touches on his truck running his jam-dipped fingers, “I feel like this will attract ants.”

She laughed, nodding.

“As long as they don't eat us, everything will be fine.”

“Wow sister, that is the best dog I saw in my whole life,” he said approaching her.

“I give it to you.”

“No, it's yours,” he looked at her confused.

She was going to say that, as a nun, she could not have possessions, even a drawing decorated with cocoa. But to say so would be putting a boundary between her and Timothy that she was not willing to put.

“I want to give it to you,” she said instead.

He took the drawing, admiring it.

“I'll put it in my room. It's fantastic!”

Then without her saying anything, he started sorting and saving the items they used.

She remembered the doctor complaining sometimes about his son's disorder, but Timothy seemed like the perfect child, although perhaps he was only showing his best behavior because he was not at home or with his father in sight.

She saw him yawning.

“Are you tired?”

“A little, but Dad will be back in two or three centuries.”

Bernadette looked at the time, it was still early, but with the day so rainy, it seemed practically night. She helped him clean up the little mess they made and they went to the kitchen while she thought about what else they could do. It occurred to her that organizing some kind of scavenger hunt would be perfect, Tim would love to sneak through the halls.

“And now we can...” she began, putting the pots of sugar and cookies in the cupboard on the counter. She stopped, noticing that Timothy was not next to her.

She turned to see him standing in the doorway, hugging the cocoa pot, shaking.

“Tim?”

She took two steps closer to him, instantly put a hand on his forehead, searching for fever, but the boy burst into sobs.

“Timothy what happen?” she put her hands on his thin, trembling shoulders.

“I just want my mom!” he yelled, clutching the pot as if his life depended on it.

“Oh, my love,” she took the pot from him, setting it on the table. She should not hug him, she should not show so much affection, but what could she do when a child asked for his mother?

“Come here,” she leaned down, spreading her arms and without hesitation he clung to her, crying harder.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” she stroked his delicate hair, as she felt the boy clenching his fists in her habit.

“I want her to come back!” he kicked the ground, and she pressed him closer to her chest, feeling the boy's pain in her own flesh. She swallowed the lump in her throat, she did not know how much the boy talked with his father, what he knew and what he did not, but she could not lie to him saying that everything would be fine.

She pulled him apart a little, to look at him, but he resisted, so she hugged him tighter, knowing that he needed more time.

“Tim, listen to me,” she whispered, he nodded, not releasing her, “I know what you're going through. My mom also died when I was your age.”

He pulled away, he was calmer, but his cheeks were covered with tears.

“Really?”

“Really. I understand you very well, but you must move on. She will always be with you, she will always take care of you, you know that?”

He made no gesture.

“Did your father love you?” he asked dryly.

“Of course he did, because...” she stopped, realizing the reason for the question, “Timothy, your father loves you. You must not doubt that.”

“Is not true.”

She straightened, to get a better look at him.

“Tim, your father loves you, anyone can see that.”

“I don’t see it.”

“I know you're angry because he couldn't spend the afternoon with you and...”

“Neither the afternoon nor never,” he interrupted her, “He's never at home, and when he's there he doesn't even listen to me. If I want to see him I must go to the surgery, and there it is always full of other people. He doesn't care about me, I'm just an inconvenience in his life, I know it.”

“Hey, stop there,” again she got up to his level, to look him directly in the eye, “Your father is an adult, and we adults work. And he does it so he can buy you food, clothes, send you to school. And he also helps many other people. What do you want? A father who is at home all day, unemployed, just drinking whiskey?”

“No,” he whispered, staring at the ground.

“He does everything he does because he loves you. We all love you.”

“Really?” He raised his eyes, bright.

“Sure, a nun never lies,” she winked at him. She hoped she had convinced him, but she did not expect his hug, a new and more joyful hug.

“I love you very much,” Tim said in the fabric of her habit and her heart stopped. Before she could answer, he released her, “You're never leaving here, right?”

She should not have promised something like that, but she should not have done many things that afternoon and yet she did.

“Why would I leave here? I'm not leaving my favorite boy in all of Poplar,” she ruffled his hair with one hand and he smiled, the first true smile since he arrived at Nonnatus.

They returned to the living room, and Tim yawned more widely, surely he was exhausted from crying.

“Why don't you sleep on the couch? A little nap before all the nurses arrive with all their talk and noise.”

“But will you go?” he looked at her, almost scared.

“No, I'll stay with you.”

“Okay then,” he threw himself on the couch, yawning again.

She sat down next to him and put her hand on the boy's forehead again, and found that it was a little warm. Maybe a cold, or something like that, otherwise Timothy always had energy all day.

She frowned, that would not be good, the doctor should take care of him. In her head she ran through the names of the doctors she could call to replace him, and the mothers who in the next few days would give birth in perhaps complicated deliveries.

As she blushed more and more for being so aware of the doctor's agenda as if she were his most loyal secretary, Timothy fell asleep next to her. She covered him with the half-finished blanket that Sister Monica Joan had abandoned and stroked his hair.

“Sleep well, my boy,” she whispered, and saw him barely smile.

A short time later, Dr Turner came in, shuffling.

“I'm coming for…” he said aloud, then stopped.

“Shh, he's asleep,” said Sister Bernadette, getting to her feet.

He smiled looking at his son, he approached him.

“I'm sorry, Tim,” he whispered. Then he looked at her, “I was supposed to be with him all day today. Did he cause a lot of inconvenience?”

“Doctor, don't think of him that way,” she looked at him, serious, “Your son is a little angel.”

He nodded, then straightened.

“Come on son, get up, it's time to go home and stop bothering Sister Bernadette.”

Timothy complained, without opening his eyes. She licked her lips, unsure of what she planned to do. She was not a mother, she was not anyone to step in, and she still wanted to, for Tim's sake.

“Doctor, let him sleep. Could I speak to you?”

Dr. Turner looked at her in surprise, then nodded several times.

“Of course.”

He followed her into the kitchen, and she looked into the living room, making sure Tim was not awake and listening.

“I think he has a slight fever, probably a cold. He was a little...listless.”

“Oh well, thanks for telling me, sister,” he answered hastily, “I'll check him when we're home.”

“There's something else,” she interrupted and he looked at her worriedly, “Doctor, I know it's not my place to say it but I think you should spend more time with him. He's a child, and he has no one else.”

He looked at her even more surprised, he cleared his throat. Then he lowered his eyes, with the same sad attitude that Tim had all that afternoon.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what he said to you, but whatever it was, he told the truth. I'm not being the best father. I don't know how to handle it, how to deal with everything...I think when he grows up he will hate me, if he doesn't do it now.”

“Oh no, doctor,” inadvertently she reached a hand out to him, to stop his train of thought. She closed her hand, lowered it, feeling embarrassed, but decided to continue, “Don't think that about yourself. Everyone knows you're a great father and you do your best. And Tim may not understand now, but in a few years he will. Just try to give him a little more time. I’m sorry, I shouldn't tell you how to raise your son.”

“No, no sister, please don't apologize. Nobody better than you to say something like this. He adores you.”

She looked him in the eye and her heart jumped. She wanted to believe that there was love in those eyes, and she was also terrified that there was.

“D...don't say that, doctor...” She stuttered.

“I'm just telling the truth. Thanks for telling me this, sometimes I deserve a reprimand, but you know how to make things sound a little sweeter.”

She looked down, cleared her throat. Then she dared to look at him again and give him her love in the only way she could.

“I can take care of Tim. He’s a special boy, please don’t leave him alone, you can bring him here as many times as you need. And if Tim is sick, I can change your appointments and I can call other doctors. There are several that you replaced and they haven’t returned the favor yet.”

He smiled, a grateful, relieved smile and leaned toward her slightly. She could see better his eyes, his features. Something coiled inside her and it was suddenly very difficult to breathe.

She had to stop these feelings towards him, as soon as possible, but with each day that passed, it was more difficult to do so. There was something that was pulling her closer to him, as if that way she could fix his life and he hers.

“Thank you, thank you very much sister. I don't know what I would do without you.”

She nodded several times and turned to almost run into the living room. She heard his heavy footsteps behind her and stopped in front of Tim.

"He's still sleeping," said the doctor, "I'll take him to the car.”

"I'll see if there's anything you can take for dinner," Bernadette said quickly.

“No, no, sister thank you very much but that would be too much. It will be fish and chips tonight.”

She nodded, looking at the ground, then saw how delicately the doctor was holding her son, who barely complained.

“Oh, he's forgetting the drawings,” hurriedly, Bernadette took the drawings they made and walked over to Timothy, who was sleeping in his father's arms.

She placed the sheets of paper between his slender fingers. She stroked the hair on his forehead, which was still hot.

“Sleep well, Timothy,” she murmured.

“Mom,” he barely whispered.

She raised her eyes to the doctor, who gave her a sad smile.

“Sorry about that, sister.”

“There is nothing to forgive doctor.”

She escorted them to the door, the rain now being an annoying drizzle. Before leaving, the doctor looked at her over his shoulder.

“Thank you very much, sister. I owe you a lot.”

She did not reply, just raised a hand to greet him and waited, until she could no longer see them in the dark night of Poplar.


End file.
